


There's a First Time For Everything

by yonnna



Category: Baccano!
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 06:31:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9535964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonnna/pseuds/yonnna
Summary: Illness struggles with firsts — the unknown strikes enough fear in her heart that she will cling to the worst of her demons out of familiarity — so she isn’t quite sure what to make of it when Claudia tells her that this film is a first and that she’s excited about it in the same breath.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Merry first day of girlfriend month!!

It’s not that Claudia struggles with routine — no, _struggling_ is not a word that could ever describe Claudia Walken. She is Atlas, carrying the world on her shoulders; whichever way she must shift to hold the weight of it she _will_. She is capable of doing anything she puts her mind to, and following a routine is _simple_ , easy. It should be —

It isn’t.

It’s not that Claudia struggles with routine; it’s _routine_ that refuses to fit _her_ lifestyle! How can she adhere to a schedule when she has an entire world to look after? There’s a time for socialising, and a time for working, and a time for studying, but the second she starts defining _when_ those times are she closes herself off to the most important thing of all: chance, opportunity, the unexpected.

Some of the best things in her life have been unexpected, after all.

Routine would have had her stuck in school, never branching out, never skipping class for auditions, never getting cast. Routine would have had her rehearsing all day on that cruise, never talking to the girl in the black and yellow dress, never getting mixed up in that terrible adventure, never making a friend in the midst of it — and yet it’s because of that friend that she learns the necessity of routine.

Illness needs routine. She doesn’t tell her this, but she knows it’s true.

Illness, who lights up more with _fear_ than excitement when she urges her to try something new — who does her best to try anyway, but whose legs shake in unfamiliar territory. Claudia does not know all the details of her past, does not know that every time her life has taken her into the uncharted it has only taught her different pain, does not know that she longs to bound into her world but hesitates at the threshold, wary of what history tells her; Claudia does not know, and she does not ask.

But Illness needs routine. In the same way that Claudia needs to be free to fly on the wing of her fancy, Illness needs something to steady her on the ground — and so she does what she can to settle her eager heart into a pattern of sorts; a handful of traditions. Little things — film night is Tuesday, on weekends they have pizza for lunch, and Friday mornings always start with pancakes. Things small enough that she does not mind how they dig like nails into her feet; small enough that she can pull them out and drift into the clouds again at a moments notice, but important enough that she doesn’t.

Usually.

The thing about _routine_ — the terrible, horrible, tricky thing — is that once it is expected, it’s absence is invariably felt.

“I’m going to rehearse this one alone, if that’s okay.”

The first time Claudia had dropped a script into Illness’ lap, she hadn’t known what to do with it. _I’m not talented like you! I can’t — I can’t do this!_ the voice at the back of her head had shouted, but Claudia’s voice had been louder, clearer. She’d led her by hand to the center of the room, and with that unquestionable confidence she had declared that all Illness had to do was follow her lead. She’d had no clue how to act then, but she’d let her trust in Claudia guide her.

Now she knows a few things, here and there. Her voice is still a soft thing — but _that’s okay_ , Claudia tells her, because it can take years to learn how to project, because it’s all for the sake of _practice_ , anyway, and because, as long as it’s for her ears only, she _likes_ her voice. She’s learned the right intonations to carry certain emotions — happiness is the easiest, then sorrow; she still struggles with anger, but the intent is there. She’s no _actress_ , but she makes for an engaging read-through, and this is all that Claudia asks of her.

It’s what she asks of her — every evening without fail — until she doesn’t.

_I’m going to rehearse this one alone, if that’s okay._

“Uh, yeah, that’s — I-I mean, whatever you want to do!”

Illness stands at the bottom of the stairs, eyes fixed on the foot already mounted on the first step. No matter how she stares at it, it stays frozen there; a mark of her foolishness. She shouldn’t have assumed Claudia would want to spend time with her. _Of course she shouldn‘t have_. Even if it’s routine now, even if it’s normal — when has she ever had _normal_?

“Is it, um, a one woman show?” she asks.

Maybe this isn’t about _her_. Maybe Claudia just doesn’t _need_ her this time. She tries to get herself to believe this. Sometimes, if she tries very hard, the voice at the back of her head starts to sound more like Claudia’s and less like her own.

“No, it’s — not.”

“R-Right. So it’s —?”

“I don’t want to lie to you, Illness.”

She can’t bear to lift her head, afraid that if she does she’ll see an emotion she would never want to see on Claudia’s face — contempt, or disgust, or disappointment. She doesn’t _sound_ angry, but what else could it be? Illness can feel her throat growing tighter.

“That’s, um, that’s o-okay! You can, you know — if you need to, you can lie!”

A _lie_ she can deal with; let it be a nice, sweet lie.

“No, I’m not going to do that.”

Hearing this, Illness braces herself for a _truth_ , trembling fists furling into the fabric of her dress. _She’s mad at me — she must be. She’s mad._ She cycles through every thing she could have done wrong, but when she is done compiling the list there is only silence. No harsh truth, no truth at all; the world has not ended, and this confuses her enough that it convinces her to look up.

Three steps above, Claudia smiles at her.

“Anyway, I really need to rehearse now.”

Illness opens her mouth to speak, but closes it when Claudia presses her index fingers to her own lips.

“I told you, I’m not going to lie, so — I’ll explain later, okay?”

It’s not okay, but Illness nods anyway, and Claudia is away with a flick of orange hair and a twirl of her skirt.

She stands there at the bottom of the stairs for long moment, struggling to make sense of the conversation — whether there had been a problem and whether it had been _hers_ — until she hears the soft _click_ of a door closing. In a daze, she drags her foot down from the step and trudges back into the living room.

“ _Uhhh…_ Charon, did I —”

She tilts her head back, focus on some indeterminate patch of paint on the ceiling.

“Did I… do something wrong?”

The boy sat on the sofa, whom she addresses but does not acknowledge with her eyes, is both completely motionless and completely silent in response. They are two barely present entities holding conversation while ignoring one another entirely.

“Um, I mean, is Claudia — i-is she mad at me?”

Her eyes sting, but she barely notices. More poignant is the stomach-twisting, gut-wrenching, nauseating anxiety at the thought of it — the thought that her first and closest friend may be _upset_ with her and that she does not know _why_.

Charon just _shrugs_.

“I-I should — no, I _have_ to go apologize! I don’t… I don’t know what _for_ b-but…”

 _But she has to_. Her hand clutches at the fabric over her chest.

“Th-Thanks for the advice. Um, I have to go now!” she says to the boy who had offered no advice, before turning on her heel and dashing out the door.

 

* * *

 

 

With every step she climbs, she tries out another apology in her mind.

_I’m sorry for running over so fast when I heard you come in, I just —  
_

_No.  
_

_I’m sorry I was so bad last time — I don’t really know how to be funny, and it was so —_

_No.  
_

_I‘m sorry for —  
_

_Please forgive me.  
_

_Please, please, please, please —  
_

By the time she reaches Claudia’s bedroom she is trembling too much to knock with any conviction. A part of her longs to shout her apologies from the rooftops, and another part urges her to turn around and leave Claudia alone — that’s what she’d asked for, isn’t it? To be left alone.

She hesitates, confronting the possibility that it may only upset her more if she interrupts her rehearsal. But then what is she supposed to do? She can’t leave Claudia to be mad at her. She _can’t_.

In the end it’s not a knock at the door that has Claudia opening it, but the muffled sniffles coming from the other side of it.

“Illness?” Her head tilts, orange curls falling over her shoulder. If Illness could pull herself away from her thoughts for a moment she might conclude, once again, that Claudia does not _look_ angry. “Is something wrong?”

“P-Please don’t hate me!” she blurts out.

“What are you talking about? Of course I don’t —”

“I-I’m sorry for — for _everything_! I’m s-so sorry. Please j-just don’t be mad at me anymore!”

“Why would I be mad at you?”

Illness falls silent. If _Claudia_ doesn’t even know why, then —

“I’m not mad at all!”

— Then that means everything is okay.

_Sniff._

Illness rubs her reddening eyes, the great ball of anxiety in her stomach slowly deflating.

“I thought _… sniff_ …” she clears her voice with a little cough. “I thought because you didn’t want to rehearse with me, you must’ve been… mad.”

Claudia purses her lips. It’s an odd expression to see on her — not quite her usual dazzling smile.

“Oh! No, no. That’s not it.”

Illness has never seen her like this before. Claudia is honest to the point of brusqueness, and she’s not _lying_ now, but avoidance is no less off-putting from a girl who tends to say everything that comes into her mind.

“It’s just…” Claudia leans out into the hallway, head turning curtly from one side to the other; Illness is reminded of the movements of a mercenary surveying the area for potential threats, though somehow she makes it more _elegant_. “I really hate keeping secrets. It feels like lying — even if I don’t have to lie to do it. I didn’t want to force you to keep it secret too! It’s not fair for me to make _you_ into a liar.”

Illness nods slowly, waiting for comprehension to kick in.

“What I mean is, if I tell you this I’m going to have to ask you not tell anyone else. Is that okay?”

And she nods again, still not fully understanding what she is agreeing to.

“Great!”

Claudia takes her hand and pulls her into the room.

 

* * *

 

 

Illness struggles with firsts — the unknown strikes enough fear in her heart that she will cling to the worst of her demons out of familiarity — so she isn’t quite sure what to make of it when Claudia tells her that this film is _a first_ and that she’s _excited_ about it in the same breath.

“So, um, you’ve never been in a romantic comedy before?”

After a long internal debate over whether it would look less weird to sit down or to stand, Illness perches herself awkwardly on the end of Claudia’s bed. Claudia paces the room, boundless energy finding no other outlet.

“Not _exactly_ ,” she admits, twirling a strand of hair between her index finger and thumb. “I was in one when I was really little, as the child of a single father — you’ve seen that, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Illness nods. “It was r-really cute!”

“Thank you!” Claudia turns her smile directly to Illness, and she ducks her head in response. “Anyway, that was different. I wasn’t _part_ of the love story.”

And it’s no mystery _why_. Claudia had been, and by most definitions still _is_ , a child actress; she hadn’t been old enough to be considered for such roles until very recently, and even now most sixteen year old characters aren’t _cast_ as sixteen year olds. She explains this to Illness — the tendency to choose older actors for teenage roles — and she doesn’t really _get it_ , but she nods along.

“But they really want to capture the _innocent love story_ image with this one, so they were a bit more open with casting.” She lifts her shoulders into a shrug and sits down at her vanity table, one leg folded over the other. “And they picked me, obviously. They _always_ do!”

Illness can only marvel at her self-confidence. When Claudia goes into an audition she expects everyone in the room to see it as a privilege; Illness has never been to an audition, because if she did she would feel the need to apologise just for walking through the door.

“I’m really glad you got the role and all, but, um.” Her brow furrows. “I still don’t get why it’s… y’know, a secret?”

“Since it’s my romantic debut, my PR rep wants to keep the news from leaking until they’re ready. Something about wanting to _preserve_ my image.” She waves her hand in the air dismissively. “I told them I don’t care about all that. Why does it matter how people see me? It’s how _I_ see them that they should worry about.”  

She lets out a little sigh.

“But they’re _trying_ to do what’s best for me. I can’t blame them for that, right? So, can you promise you won’t tell anyone? I know it’s a lot to ask —”

Illness springs to her feet.

“N-No! I mean, it’s, um, it’s no problem!”

She’s kept secrets before. Worse ones than this, by far; she’s kept horrible, disgusting secrets, secrets that make her sick, and this is just a _film_. It’s almost laughable that Claudia would feel guilty about making her keep it, but it’s such a considerate gesture that it’s closer to bringing her to tears.

“It’s not like I have anyone to tell anyway, r-really.”

When she meets Claudia’s eyes they shine like stars, golden and glowing.

“Thank you, Illness!” The gratitude in her voice is earnest; no intonation suits her more than a _genuine_ one. “Now that that’s sorted, there’s nothing stopping us from rehearsing together anymore!”

She grabs her script off the table and hands it to Illness, who smiles as though she is being gifted the world.

“I know most of my lines for the second scene, so let’s start there.”

She thumbs through the pages until she finds the right one, and the words begin to flow.

They step into routine, and routine welcomes them back.

 

* * *

 

 

Tagging along to shoots could be glamorous if Illness let it be — she could be watching the performance from off set, she could be seeing all the Hollywood magic first hand — but she doesn’t. She’s tried telling Claudia that it’s because she feels out of place there, but the actress had insisted that _no, no,_ she’s not out of place at all; now when she’s asked she tells her that she doesn’t want to spoil herself for the film before it comes out, which is a lesser truth, but still a truth.

She likes the greenroom better than the trailers they use while travelling. It had been disappointing at first, coming to terms with the fact that it isn’t _actually_ green, but now that she’s accepted this sad reality it’s a nice enough place to be. It’s quiet during filming, and there are snacks and drinks — it’s _comfortable_ , and comfortable is something Illness is slowly letting herself get used to.

She thumbs through the pages of a magazine, testing herself on how many faces she can put a name to. She’d read these sorts of magazines as a kid, but even if these celebrities had been popular then, she prefers not to remember _anything_ from those days. What she knows now she knows because Claudia has immersed her in it again, has allowed her to return to the normal hobbies she’d had before Mask Makers took her in — except this time is different.

This time it _is_ normal. It’s not a trick; it’s not a ploy to raise her spirits so that when she falls she falls _harder_ , it’s just — a _magazine_. It’s just gossip and fashion tips and dating advice. There’s no dread looming over her when she reads it.

Normality is a strange and wondrous thing; like an oversized sweater or a too long t-shirt, it fits her both poorly and _well_.

“— five minutes. _”  
_

Illness is torn away from a column on an upcoming historical drama by the sound of muffled voices down the hall. Ears made keen by years of mercenary work have not yet learned to mind their own business.

“ _Just_ five minutes?”

“You know I don’t tell lies.”

A chime of laughter, hearty and distinctive, grows in volume as the speakers draw nearer.

“Isn’t acting _all about_ lying?”

“Not at all,” says Claudia’s voice, right on the other side of the door now. “If you’re doing it right, acting is about telling all kinds of _truths_.”

The door cracks open and Illness catches sight of a ringlet of orange hair.

“Five minutes?”

“Five minutes.”

One set of footsteps heads off the way it came, while Claudia peeks her head into the room.

“Illness! Good, you’re still here!”

She darts over to the sofa, having a seat beside her in the time it takes her to respond.

“— Aren’t you, um, supposed to be filming? D-Did something go wrong?”

Claudia shakes her head, smile unwavering.

“Of course not! Nothing ever goes wrong when I’m on set,” she assures, as though this is fact and not self-belief.

“Oh, um, that’s good! S-So, what are you —?”

There’s something _off_ about this Claudia; Illness can’t place what it is, exactly. She’s as enthusiastic as ever, but that energy of hers is manifest in little _fidgets_ , fingers interlocking, leg bouncing — if she were anyone else, anyone but _Claudia Walken_ , she might call it nervousness.

But Claudia Walken does not _get_ nervous. On her it is _anticipation_.

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“I-It?”

“About this scene.”

Which part of the scene she’s referring to clicks almost immediately; it had been the only part they’d skipped during their read-through.

“About my first kiss! First kisses are supposed to be with someone special!” she declares, hand soaring up to land on her chest.

“U-Um, sure, I guess — are they?”

“Of course they are! That’s how it always is in the movies, and that’s how I want it to be in my world, too!”

“R-Right, uh…”

She tilts her head. If Claudia doesn’t like the boy she has to play opposite then it’s a shame, but it’s not one she can do much about. She’s never been good with words of condolence; she’s still trying to figure a more eloquent way to say _that sucks_ when Claudia takes both her hands in hers.

“You’re a really special part of my world, Illness.”

If she vocalizes anything in response it’s nothing coherent; her mind is running too fast for her words to keep up. Why is Claudia telling her this? What does she want her to _do_? There is something expectant in her smile, and it worries her to no end.

“Would it be alright if I —?”

— Worries her _more_ when it is hovering near her lips.

“W-Wait, what?”

She is very suddenly aware of the _closeness_. It’s not something she very often thinks about around Claudia, a girl to whom verbal intimacy is instinct, a girl to whom closeness is the most natural thing in the world; she has never _had_ to think about what her closeness means until these words accompany it, and now she can think of nothing else. She can’t be asking what she thinks she is. There’s no way.

She’s not the kind of person who’s supposed to end up in situations like this.

“If you don’t want to, that’s okay, too —”

“N-No! Um, I-I mean.” She finds herself very still, unwilling to move away but unable to move closer. “I don’t _not_ want to — want to…”

She quirks an eyebrow, and offers: “To kiss me?”

“T-To k-ki…”

“It’s not a bad word, Illness,” she laughs, giving her hands a comforting squeeze. Illness knows this. She knows that to a normal person this would be anything _but_ a bad thing; Claudia is kind and good — her first friend and her best friend, and a talented actress, and a wonderful girl. The problem isn’t _Claudia_ or _kissing_ , the problem is _her_.

“But y-you shouldn’t, um… k… kiss someone like _m-me_ —” she starts, casting her eyes down.

“But what if I _want_ to? Would you let me?”

“… I-If you…”

She gives a small nod, in spite of herself — in spite of her certainty that she is not made for this. She quiets the the voice that tells her this; Claudia’s is louder, clearer.

“ _If you want to._ ”

Sometimes Claudia’s gifts can make her seem otherworldly, far away from Illness’ life and unreachable, but this time she reaches just fine.

Claudia is not perfect — even if Illness is sure she is, and even if _she_ is sure she is. She is not, but she wears her imperfections with such _confidence_. It’s a clumsy movement, and a graceful one; noses bumps when she leans in, but then their lips meet and the awkwardness fades away.

 _First kisses should be special, like in the movies_ , Claudia had said, but this isn’t — it’s not like in the movies. It’s a different sort of special; not dramatic and loud, but soft and gentle. She’d thought it would make her heart race, but the feeling is more a flutter. It’s not the heat of an explosion, it’s the warmth of the sun.

When she pulls away her stomach jumps with the usual fears — she must have done something wrong, must have disappointed her — but she opens her eyes and she is beaming; bright smile and cheeks touched with the same red as her hair.

“My second kiss is going to have to be with the boy out there,” she explains, and her grip on Illness’ hand unravels. “But if it’s alright with you, I’d like you to be my third kiss.”

Her hand moves to rest on her cheek, and Illness opens her mouth to say — she doesn’t know _what_. That she doesn’t deserve to be? That she should find someone better?

“And my fourth.”

It’s a silly thought that Claudia could catch whatever sickness ails her personality, and yet it’s unshakeable.

“I’d like you to be —”

“Claudia!” a voice carries through from outside the room.

“A lot of things,” she says hastily, jumping to her feet. “Can I talk to you about it later?”

“U-Uh, um,” Illness manages to sputter. “Uh-huh!”

She gives one more reassuring smile, then leaves Illness dumbfounded.

 

* * *

 

 

_I’d like you to be a lot of things_.

Illness, really, would like herself to be a lot of things, too.

She’d like to be braver and bolder, she’d like to be kinder and more open-hearted, she’d like to be _good_.

She’d like to be — whatever it is that Claudia wants her to be.

The trouble is, she’s been thinking all day and she still can’t guess _what_ that is. She knows what she wants herself to be, but Claudia has told her at every turn that she does not _have_ to change — that she can be who she _is_ , as long as she’s honest about it. It’s not that she would begrudge her if she has decided differently; if Claudia has decided now that she _does_ want her to change, she will — she just wishes she knew _how_.

“Where do I start?” Claudia asks, as though she could possibly know the answer.

She had gotten home a few minutes earlier and had promptly asked Charon to step out of the room. He had obliged with a silent nod — a _knowing_ nod — and now they are sat on different ends of the same sofa, Claudia gesturing boldly and Illness staring on in confusion.

“My world has changed a lot because you’re in it, and — hey, don’t start looking sad! I _like_ the ways it’s changed!”

Is she starting to look sad? She feels more _anxious_ than anything else, but forces a smile anyway.

“I like pizza Saturdays and movie Tuesdays. Charon has really come out of his shell around you — as much as he has around anyone, anyway. I’m glad I found you, and I’m glad I let you into my world, ad I’m glad you were my first kiss!”

These are very nice words — these are words that bring colour to the pallor of her face — but they do not answer the question she’s been worrying herself with. What does she want her to _be_?

“I want you to be a part of my world forever,” she declares, with confidence and finality.

“…?”

“Illness, you should marry me!”

Illness is silent for a very long moment.

“Um… u-uh, I, um…” She is surprisingly calm, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and shaking her head. She’s had stranger, more unsettling daydreams. “I, um, sorry, I think I spaced out just now. What did you say?”

“You should marry me!”

Then she is _not_ calm.

“W-What?!”

“What’s wrong? Grandpa Felix promised me that’d work.”

 _What’s wrong?_ The same thing that’s always wrong — _she_ is.

“C-Claudia, um, I’m — I’m not the k-kind of person you should be spending your l-life with —!”

“That’s not true!”

“A-And anyway! Even if I-I was a better person, uh, w-we’re way too young t-to get married!”

Claudia reaches over to lay her hand on hers.

“Then we’ll get engaged.”

“C-Claudia!” Illness squeaks.

“Illness, I really mean it!” She furrows her brow, her voice softening to a tone that Illness has not heard since they’d parted on the cruise. “I don’t want to lose you — not again.”

Illness does not say anything, but she turns her hand over to grip Claudia’s.

“I know you don’t want to talk about what happened, and that’s okay! You don’t have to.” Even though she does not stop smiling, even though her words remain clear and bright, there is something not quite _happy_ about them, and it makes Illness ache. “But when you went missing it was like losing a part of myself. I’m so lucky to have you back. Not that I believe in _luck_ , but —”

The concern in her expression melts back into _fondness_.

“What I’m saying is, my world isn’t the same without you in it.”

 _Sniffle_.

Illness doesn’t realise she’s on the verge of tears until she feels one roll down her cheek.

“You’re — you’re too n-nice to me, Claudia!”

She raises her free hand to rub her eyes, and Claudia shakes her head.

“No, I’m as nice as you deserve! I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“I-It’s okay, it’s not — I’m not _s-sad_.”

She’s _happy_ ; happy and surprised, and not quite sure how to respond beyond crying.

Claudia wraps an arm around her, pulling her close.

“W-We could, um,” Illness says between _sniffles_. “I-If you wanted, what if we — started out, y’know, smaller?”

Claudia hums, resting her chin on her head.

“You mean promise rings?”

Illness makes a sound that’s halfway between a sob and a giggle.

“I-I mean _a date_ ,” she responds, feeling a little bit less strange for Claudia’s strangeness. 

“I’d like that,” Claudia laughs. The warmth of it dries what is left of Illness’ tears. “Did you know I’ve never been on one? It’ll be a first!”

A first, Illness thinks, that she may be able to deal with.


End file.
